.->.* 

BT 


10 

o 
^r 

CvJ 


CD 


GIFT   OF 


Ci)e  d&teen 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

A  WOMAN  OF  GENIUS 
CHRIST  IN  ITALY 
THE  ARROW  MAKER 


Gftatt  Souofij 

C*.  •— -M 

HGal«  o£&    " 

^D  '^1  V  -/ 


Copyright,  1913,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  Co. 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 

COPYRIGHT,  IQI2,  BY  THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

. 


Crebo 


of  tfuatoorito  are  rente* 
liiafcle  tofctle  toe  are  in 
tf)e  toorlfc  bp  no  otfjer 
means  tfjan  tl)t  spirit 
of  truti)  anb  farotl)erlt= 
ness  toot&tng 
latoful 
among  men. 


d5teen  Bougl) 


u 


Bougi) 


T  was  the  season  of  the  green 
bough.  On  into  the  night, 
emanations  from  the  warm, 
odorous  earth  kept  the  chill  from  the 
air,  and  the  sky,  steeped  in  the  full 
spring  suns,  retained,  almost  until  dawn, 
light  enough  to  show  the  pale  under 
sides  of  the  olive  branches  where  they 
stirred  with  the  midnight  currents.  It 
was  not  until  the  hours  fell  into  the 
very  pit  of  the  night  that  the  morn 
ing  coolness  began  to  strike  shivers 
along  the  bodies  of  those  whose  business 
kept  them  sleeping  on  the  open  slopes 
outside  the  city  walls. 

It  would  have  been  about  that  time 


that  he  awoke.  For  more  than  an  hour 
past  he  had  swung  from  point  to  point  of 
consciousness  on  successive  waves  of 
pain;  now  he  was  carried  almost  to  the 
verge  of  recovery,  and  now  he  felt  the 
dragging  clutch  of  the  Pit  from  which 
hardly  he  had  escaped.  By  degrees  as 
he  was  borne  toward  life  his  passages  in 
and  out  of  insensibility  began  to  approach 
more  nearly  the  normal  phases  of  waking 
and  sleeping;  the  pangs  of  his  body  sep 
arated  from  the  obsessions  of  spiritual 
distress,  and  recurrent  memory  began  to 

ply- 
it  began  with  the  agony  in  the  garden 
and  the  falling  away  of  all  human  support 
from  that  inexplicable  wrestling  of  great 
souls   with   foreknowledge,   which  must 


always  seem  to  the  generality,  unneces 
sary  if  not  a  little  absurd.  More  pitiably 
than  all  that  had  rolled  between,  he  felt 
the  empty  reach  of  his  affections  toward 
the  uncomprehending  sleep  of  his  com 
panions.  .  .  .  Could  ye  not  watch 
one  little  hour!  He  remembered  the 
futility  of  trial,  the  scoffing  and  the  be 
trayals,  through  the  crisis  of  which  his 
quick  spirit  had  lived  so  long  before,  that 
at  last  it  broke  upon  him  harmlessly. 
Pain  by  pain,  his  body  picked  out  for 
him  other  memories  of  the  way,  the  cross, 
the  tearing  nails.  .  .  .  more  than 
all  else  the  impotence  of  purely  human 
impulses  under  the  larger  vision  which 
kept  him  even  in  the  midst  of  anguish, 
profoundly  aware  of  how  little  they  knew 


the  thing  they  did.  It  came  back  upon 
him  as  the  stiffness  of  his  wounds,  the 
burden  of  understanding  that  loses  even 
the  poor  human  relief  of  bitterness  and 
blame.  As  he  fell  away  again  into  the 
trough  of  bodily  pain  it  was  to  measure 
the  full  horror  of  that  drop,  which,  when 
the  racked  consciousness  that  had  sus 
tained  him  in  the  knowledge  of  Father- 
liness,  had  failed  like  a  splitten  sail  and 
left  him  beating  blindly  in  the  void. 
"My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  for 
saken  me?"  He  came  strangely  up  to 
life  in  the  anguish  of  that  cry.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  he  put  up  his  hand  and  touched 
the  cold  stones  of  his  sepulchre.  He  was 
dead  then,  and  was  alive.  Lying  very 
still  for  pure  weakness,  his  spirit  returned 


half  unwittingly  by  the  old  track  and 
and  travelled  toward  God  .  .  .  fum- 
blingly,  as  a  drowsy  child  at  the  breast,  he 
sucked  comfort,  the  ineffable,  divine  sup 
port.  It  flowed.  Slowly  the  slacked 
spirit  filled.  .  .  .  Power  came  upon 
him.  God  was  not  dead  .  .  .  nor 
forsaking.  ...  He  hung  upon  that 
and  waited  for  a  word.  Outside  in  the 
dawn  dusk  a  bird,  awakened  by  the  sway 
ing  of  his  bough  in  the  first  waft  of  the 
morning,  bubbled  over  with  the  joyous 
urge  of  the  spring.  The  sound  of  it 
filtered  through  the  rock  crevices  in  a 
thin,  clear  trickle  of  song.  He  laid  off 
the  grave  cloth  and  began  to  feel  for  the 
round  stone  which  he  knew  should  close 
the  mouth  of  the  grave.  Wounded  as  he 


was,  it  was  still  no  more  than  many  suffer 
in  battle,  with  the  cheerful  promise  of 
recovery;  calling  on  those  reserves  of 
power  for  which  he  had  always  been  re 
markable,  he  applied  his  shoulder  to  the 
stone  ...  it  yielded  to  the  pressure 
and  slid  along  the  groove. 

He  made  out  the  soft  bulk  of  the  olive 
trees,  all  awake  and  astir  to  catch  the 
first  streak  of  the  morning,  and  the  tink 
link  of  water  falling  from  a  pipe  into  a 
stone  basin.  Following  it  he  came  to  the 
fountain  from  which  the  garden  was 
watered,  and  drank  and  bathed  his 
wounds.  He  was  startled  for  a  moment 
by  the  swaying  of  a  garment  against  him, 
and  then  he  perceived  it  to  be  the  gar 
dener's  cloak  left  hanging  in  the  tree,  the 


long,  brown  hooded  garment  of  the  time. 
He  drew  its  folds  around  him  as  a  protec 
tion  against  the  warning  chill  of  dawn. 
He  was  a  workingman  also,  and  knew 
the  ways  of  working  folk;  he  groped  in 
the  split  hollow  of  the  ancient  olive  tree, 
and  far  under  the  roots  behind  the  gar 
dener's  spade  he  found  a  lump  of  figs 
tied  in  a  cloth  and  a  common  flask  which 
had  yet  a  few  swallows  of  wine  in  it. 
When  he  had  eaten  and  drunk  he  bound 
up  his  side  with  the  cloth  and  sat  down 
on  the  stone  bench  of  the  fountain  to 
think  what  had  befallen  him. 

He  was  dead  —  else  why  had  they 
buried  him?  —  and  he  was  alive  again. 
This  then  was  the  meaning  of  those  glim 
mers  and  intimations  of  a  life  so  abundant 


that  he  could  not  imagine  even  the  shock 
of  death  to  separate  him  from  it.  ... 
For  a  long  time  he  had  known  what  he 
must  face  if  he  came  up  to  Jerusalem, 
yet  he  had  faced  it,  urged  by  that  in 
ward  impulse  too  deep  and  imperative 
for  human  withstanding  .  .  .  and  he 
had  died  .  .  .  witness  the  aching 
wound  in  his  side  .  .  .  and  now  he 
walked  among  the  olives.  Vestiges  and 
starts  of  the  broken  images  of  pain  and 
returning  consciousness  advised  where 
he  had  been.  He  turned  his  mind 
deliberately  away  from  that  and  laid 
hold  on  God  ...  he  was  alive 
again.  .  .  .  The  currents  of  the 
Eternal  Being  circulated  through  him 
with  peace  and  healing. 


The  dusk  of  the  dawn  cleared  to  ineffa 
ble  blueness,  in  which  the  domes  and 
towers  of  Jerusalem  swam,  islanded  in 
light.  Round  about,  single  high  peaks, 
which  still  retained  the  winter  whiteness, 
glowed  like  outposts  of  the  heavenly  host. 
The  gates  of  the  city  clattered  to  let  in 
the  hordes  of  market  gardeners  with  their 
donkeys,  camped  since  the  night  before 
outside  the  walls,  and  presently  in  the  cool 
dimness  he  saw  the  women  stealing  out 
by  a  postern  and  beginning  to  climb  the 
hill  path  toward  the  place  of  sepulchres. 
They  came  peering  through  the  dawn, 
for  they  were  not  certain  of  any  mark  by 
which  they  should  know  it,  except  that 
it  was  a  new  tomb  wherein  never  man 
was  laid.  Their  voices  came  up  to  him 


clearly  through  the  morning  stillness, 
and  he  knew  at  once  what  their  errand 
was  when  he  heard  them  troubling  lest 
they  had  come  so  early  there  would  be  no 
one  about  to  take  away  the  stone  from 
the  door;  but  when  they  came  to  the 
place  where  it  should  be,  and  saw  that 
it  was  already  rolled  away,  they  were 
amazed  and  a  little  afraid.  Then  Mary 
the  mother  of  James  and  Salome,  and 
the  other  Mary,  put  down  the  spices 
they  had  brought,  to  go  and  carry  word 
to  the  disciples,  but  Mary  Magdalene 
stayed  weeping  by  the  sepulchre. 

When  he  saw  that  she  was  alone  he 
went  to  her  and  inquired  why  she  wept. 
She,  supposing  him  to  be  the  gardener, 
for  she  saw  little  because  of  her  weeping, 


and  it  was  not  yet  full  light  —  "Oh,  sir," 
she  said,  "if  you  have  borne  him  hence, 
tell  me  where  you  have  laid  him  that  I 
may  take  him  away." 

"Mary!"  he  said,  and  as  he  spoke  he 
put  back  the  gardener's  hood  from  his 
head. 

"Rabboni,"  the  old  title  came  back 
half  consciously  in  answer  to  the  tone, 
and  suddenly  she  saw  that  it  was  he, 
and  fell  in  trembling,  for  she  could  not 
understand  but  that  he  was  a  spirit. 
She  sunk  in  the  wet  grass  of  the  orchard, 
for  the  quaking  of  her  limbs  would  not 
sustain  her. 

"Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the 
dead?"  he  questioned  with  the  old  tender 
irony,  but  she  scarcely  heard  him.  She 


inrar 


worked  toward  him  on  her  knees;  tremb 
lingly  her  hands  went  out  to  touch  the 
beloved  feet,  half  to  prove  it  were  his 
very  self  or  a  vision  of  thin  air. 

"  Nay,  touch  me  not,  Mary."  He  drew 
back  with  the  sensitiveness  of  the  newly 
wounded.  "I  am  not  yet  ascended  to 
my  Father,"  he  assured  her  as  he  raised 
her  from  the  ground. 

Louder  now  they  heard  the  stir  of 
Jerusalem  awake,  and  knew  that  the 
broadening  day  might  soon  bring  the 
rabble  about  them.  When  he  had  ques 
tioned  her  a  little  hurriedly  concerning 
the  state  of  the  city  and  his  disciples,  he 
bade  her  tell  them  to  come  to  him  in 
Galilee  in  a  place  known  to  them  of  old, 
and  so  saying  drew  the  folds  of  his  cloak 


about  him  and  went  down  by  the  hill 
trail  away  from  Jerusalem. 

It  was  twilight  of  the  same  day  when 
he  came  near  to  the  village  of  Emmaus 
and  heard  the  cheerful  barking  of  the 
dogs  and  the  lowing  of  the  cattle  at  the 
byres.  There  was  a  good  spring  smell  of 
tillage  in  the  inlets  of  the  hills  and  the 
cry  of  the  night- jar  shaken  out  over  the 
stony  places  in  a  shrill  fine  spray  of 
sound.  Half  an  hour  from  the  village 
he  came  upon  two  who  had  followed  him 
up  to  Jerusalem  in  the  beginning  of 
Passover,  and  as  they  walked  they  rea 
soned  together  concerning  the  things  that 
had  come  to  pass  there.  When  he  had 
entered  into  conversation  he  saw  that 


they  were  sad,  and  inquired  of  them  the 
reason  for  it;  and  they,  taking  him  for  a 
stranger,  told  him  how  but  a  short  time 
since  there  had  gone  a  man  up  to  Jeru 
salem  with  a  great  company,  preaching 
the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  at  hand,  and 
what  had  been  done  to  him  by  the 
authorities. 

"But,"  said  they,  "we  trusted  it  had 
been  he  should  redeem  Israel." 

"0  slow  of  heart,"  cried  he,  "that  you 
believe  not  all  that  the  prophets  have 
spoken!" 

All  day  as  he  had  come,  against  the 
pangs  of  his  torn  body,  his  spirit  had 
beat  up  toward  God  with  the  rhythm  of 
his  walking,  calling  on  Power  by  all  the 
names  of  Jehovah  until  he  went  veiled 


; 


in  it  as  in  a  cloud,  which  now,  by  the  mere 
added  effort  of  communication,  burst  into 
splendor.  But  a  few  days  since  he  had 
walked  up  to  Jerusalem,  battling,  in  the 
midst  of  the  presages  of  betrayal  and 
disaster,  with  the  incomplete  revelation 
of  Messiahship.  This  morning  waking 
at  once  to  a  knowledge  of  the  practical 
defeat  and  to  a  new  and  extraordinary 
security  of  Divine  continuance,  he  had 
felt  his  way,  like  a  true  Hebrew,  back 
through  the  maze  of  intimations  by  the 
words  of  the  Prophets;  starlighted  say 
ings  shot  like  meteors  across  the  dark 
of  Israel's  history.  They  lit  far  inward 
past  the  shames  and  consternations  of 
the  crucifixion. 

This,  then,  was  the  Kingdom;  not  the 


overthrow  of  one  form  by  another,  but 
the  flux  of  all  forms,  empires,  pomps, 
societies,  in  the  eternal  facts  of  existence 
.  .  .  the  redemption  of  life  from  the 
bondage  of  Things.  He  was  dead  and 
was  alive  again. 

How  indeed  was  a  Messiahship  to 
prove  its  divine  origin  by  merely  setting 
up  in  the  room  of  thrones  and  princi 
palities?  Say  rather,  the  last  word  as 
to  the  futility  of  the  Kingdoms  of  the 
world  was  pronounced  when  they  wrecked 
themselves  against  his  immortal  quality. 

As  he  held  up  the  events  of  the  last  few 
days  to  the  familiar  scriptures,  new  mean 
ings  came  out  in  them  like  secret  writing 
held  before  a  flame,  and  as  he  talked  the 
hearts  of  his  companions  burned  within 


them.  As  they  drew  near  to  their  house 
the  speaker  made  as  if  he  would  have  gone 
further,  but  they  urged  that  he  should 
come  in  to  supper,  for  the  way  was  hard 
and  the  dark  had  fallen.  So  as  they  sat 
at  table,  still  talking,  the  mistress  of  the 
house  set  food  before  them  and  a  little 
oil-fed  lamp.  Then  the  guest  put  back 
the  hood  from  his  head  and  stretching 
forth  his  hand  broke  the  bread  and 
blessed  it,  as  was  his  custom,  and  at  once 
they  knew  him,  but  for  very  fear  and 
astonishment  they  spoke  neither  to  him 
nor  to  one  another.  As  soon  as  he  saw  that 
he  was  recognized  he  rose  and  went  forth 
from  them,  disappearing  in  the  night. 

So   little   anticipated  by  his  disciples 


had  been  the  overthrow  of  the  Mes 
sianic  Hope,  that  the  stroke  of  it  fell  upon 
them  like  a  wolf  upon  the  flock.  It 
scattered  them  into  nooks  and  corners, 
into  the  hill  places  and  villages  round 
about  Jerusalem,  there  to  huddle,  press 
ing  together  for  relief  from  consterna 
tion,  loath  to  believe  that  the  miraculous 
powers,  which  had  so  often  served  them, 
had  failed  him  on  his  own  account,  and 
wholly  unable  to  accept  the  whispered 
word  brought  by  the  women  from  the 
sepulchre.  He  was  gone;  power  and  per 
sonality,  his  body  even  risen  or  spirited 
away.  All  during  that  day  there  had 
been  fearful  stealers  about  the  precincts 
of  the  burial  place  for  a  view  of  the  de 
serted  tomb,  stealing  back  again  to  whis- 


per  and  wonder  or  to  handle  the  dropped 
grave  cloth  which  lay  treasured  in  the 
house  of  Mary. 

And  now,  here  were  two  came  back 
from  Emmaus  with  extraordinary  new 
proof  of  a  resurrection,  which  when  they 
had  heard  it  neither  did  they  believe. 
But  as  some  few  of  them  sat  together 
talking  of  these  things,  secretly  behind 
shut  doors  for  fear  of  authorities,  he  of 
whom  they  spoke,  advised  by  that  mys 
terious  inward  leading  that  his  name 
passed  among  them  with  the  pld  rever 
ent  tenderness,  sought,  them  out  by  it, 
and  while  they  were  yet  speaking  ap 
peared  among  them.  Wounded  and  pale 
from  his  vigils  and  his  pains,  the  voice  of 
his  customary  salutation  struck  terror 


rvm 


through  them.  There  were  men  there 
who  had  unbound  him  dead,  as  they  be 
lieved,  from  the  cross  and  bestowed  him 
in  the  tomb! 

"Behold  my  hands  and  my  feet,"  he 
said;  "handle  me  and  see;  for  a  spirit 
hath  not  flesh  and  bones."  But  seeing 
they  hung  between  terror  and  wonder, 
he  understood  that  they  still  supposed 
that  they  had  seen  a  spirit.  Then  he 
sat  at  table  and  asked  that  he  be  served 
with  what  food  they  had,  the  broiled 
fish  and  honey  in  the  comb,  upon  which 
they  had  been  at  supper,  talking  quietly 
the  while.  Seeing  him  eat  they  grew  se 
cure,  and  as  they  began  to  realize  that 
he  was  with  them  in  flesh,  they  were 
glad. 


So  by  such  simple  means  as  they  were 
able  to  receive  he  made  them  to  know 
that  he  was  the  very  man  whom  with 
their  own  hands  they  had  laid  away,  in 
no  wise  changed  or  altered;  but  of  the 
new  meaning  which  his  life  had  taken  on 
by  the  fact,  he  spoke  very  little,  for  their 
minds  were  not  opened  to  it;  neither  was 
it  at  all  times  and  altogether  plain  to 
himself. 


In  the  hills  beyond  the  Sea  of  Tiberias 
there  was  a  hut  built  in  a  secret  and  soli 
tary  place  by  one  of  those  wild  anchorites 
not  infrequently  met  with  in  the  borders 
of  Judea.  None  knew  of  it  except  per 
haps  a  runaway  slave  or  two,  and  shep 
herds  who  used  it  at  lambing  time. 


Here  in  the  beginning  of  his  ministry  he 
had  drawn  apart  for  seasons  of  prayer 
and  meditation,  that  the  Word  might 
be  plain  to  him;  here,  then,  he  remained 
resting  of  God,  subsisting  in  the  body  by 
what  the  hills  afforded  him  and  by  the 
gifts  of  a  few  poor  followers  who  had 
their  homes  hereabout,  as  yet  scarcely 
apprised  of  the  tragic  termination  of  his 
mission  to  Jerusalem.  Here  he  saw  the 
passing  of  the  rains,  and  flowers  come  out, 
flame  like,  on  low  piney  shrubs;  wander 
ing  shepherds  went  by  him  with  their 
new-washed  flocks,  and  whiter  clouds 
led  flockwise  in  the  draws  between  the 
hills.  .  .  .  By  all  these  things  knowl 
edge  flowed  into  him. 

He  saw  with  chastening  how  it  was 


that  he,  so  near  at  all  times  to  the  Divine 
mind,  should  suffer  these  things.  Lying 
so  close  there,  as  a  child  to  its  parent,  he 
had  been  pushed  off  the  better  to  measure 
its  reach  and  fullness.  He  had  clung  to 
that  breast  which  in  his  ministry  had 
nourished  him,  until  torn  from  it  by  be 
trayals,  mockings,  tortures  of  his  body, 
he  had  dropped  despairingly  into  the 
gulf  of  death,  and  lo,  he  was  fallen  into 
the  lap  of  God!  "The  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  is  in  the  midst  of  you,"  he  had 
said  to  his  disciples,  and  now  suddenly 
he  had  discovered  it  in  the  midst  of  him 
self!  this  profound  inward  clutch  upon 
Being,  from  which  not  the  breaking  of  his 
body  could  divide  him. 

Here  in  the  weakness  of  shock  and 


wounds,  much  that  had  perplexed  him  in 
his  own  life,  the  fullness  of  Power  strain 
ing  at  his  human  I  imitations,  came  out 
clearly  like  the  contour  of  a  coast  at  ebb, 
but  it  left  him  more  than  ever  groping 
for  that  communicating  touch  by  which 
the  gained  knowledge  could  be  made 
serviceable  to  men. 

"As  my  father  hath  sent  me,"  he  had 
said  to  his  disciples  when  his  new-found 
resistance  to  wounding  and  the  malice 
of  men  was  at  flood,  "even  so  I  send  you." 
Now  as  his  body  frailed  before  the  inun 
dation  of  revelation,  he  yearned  for  Peter 
and  that  John  whom  he  had  loved,  all 
the  company  of  humble  folk  who  had 
heard  him  gladly,  following  up  to  Jeru 
salem  trustfully  as  the  great  bands  of 


sheep  that  passed  him  almost  daily, 
roving  the  Galilean  hills  at  the  heels  of 
the  shepherd. 

How  was  he  to  reach  them  now,  scat 
tered  and  leaderless,  with  the  significance 
of  his  persistence  in  the  body  which  he 
accepted  at  its  humanest  interpretation. 
Lying  close  in  the  cover  of  the  hills  he 
sent  out  his  thoughts  in  a  strong  cry 
toward  his  best  loved  disciples,  and  Peter 
and  John  and  the  others  picking  up  again 
the  dropped  thread  of  their  humble  avo 
cations  about  Gennesareth,  heard  him. 
They  heard  him  inwardly,  but  read  it 
so  humanly  awry  that  they  made  excuse 
to  one  another  that  they  went  a  fishing, 
They  entered  into  the  fishing  boats  and 
all  night,  though  they  caught  nothing, 


they  beat  toward  the  coast  where  the 
cry  was;  and  when  it  was  early  light 
they  heard  his  very  voice  calling  to  them 
that  they  should  cast  in  their  net  on  the 
side  where  he  had  seen  the  silver  schools 
floating  under  the  morning  mist.  When 
Peter  knew  the  voice  he  girt  on  his 
fisher's  coat  and  came  ashore  through 
the  shallows,  for  they  were  close  in,  and 
he  had  the  quickest  faith  of  all  the  twelve. 
Then  the  others  came  in  with  the  nets 
full  to  breaking,  and  found  that  he  had 
made  a  fire,  for  the  nights  along  the  lake 
borders  were  chill,  and  prepared  bread. 
So  they  took  fish  and  broiled  it  and  broke 
their  fast  together  as  they  had  done  so 
many  times  before  when  in  the  begin 
ning  of  his  ministry  he  had  often  no  other 


food  than  the  shared  bread  of  the  working 
people.  The  naturalness  of  the  morning 
meal  restored  to  them  a  little  of  their 
former  reverent  familiarity,  and  served 
as  the  medium  by  which  he  undertook  to 
lay  upon  them  the  obligation  of  the  gospel 
which  he  could  now  no  more  in  this 
frame  and  presence  preach  about  the 
world. 

Of  this  he  seems  to  have  been  certain. 
Daily  as  he  reached  inward  on  great 
tides  of  prayer  for  the  word  born  of  his 
late  experience,  he  was  aware  of  being 
carried  so  far  out  of  his  wracked  body 
that  it  was  inevitable  that  he  should 
finally  leave  it  there  tumbled  like  weed 
along  the  shore  of  Things.  Beyond  that 
episode  lay  the  full  light  for  which  he 


panted  more  than  a  hart  for  the  water- 
brook. 

He  had  known,  evidently,  how  his 
visit  to  Jerusalem  must  terminate,  he 
seems  now  to  have  understood  that  his 
further  usefulness  must  wait  upon  the 
dropping  off  of  the  tortured  frame  which 
he  had  brought  up  through  the  tomb  with 
him,  but  he  missed  knowing  how  to  con 
vey  to  the  remnant  of  his  disciples,  who 
came  together  about  him  in  the  hills, 
the  spiritual  values  of  his  return. 

He  failed,  perhaps,  because  he  was  not 
himself  yet  sure  that  it  might  not  come 
that  way,  to  rid  them  of  the  expectation 
of  Jewish  Autonomy;  he  was  concerned, 
as  always,  with  the  preaching  of  his 
Word,  rather  than  what  came  of  it.  On 


this  morning  the  flocks  rounding  the  lake 
fronting  hills  furnished  the  figure  of  his 
admonition. 

"Feed  my  sheep,"  he  said  to  Peter, 
and  again;  and  then  "Feed  my  lambs." 
One  thing  he  had  not  brought  back  out 
of  the  tomb  with  him  was  the  fear  by 
which  his  church  was  afterward  cor 
rupted,  that  the  Truth  of  God  could  not 
be  trusted  to  do  its  Perfect  Work  in  man. 

On  a  mountain  in  a  place  appointed 
for  them,  he  flamed  forth  for  the  last 
time,  with  that  message,  the  faint,  mis 
read  recollection  of  which  as  it  lay  in 
the  minds  of  his  disciples  has  become  the 
ultimate  hope  of  all  our  science  and  all 
untoward  questionings  —  the  assurance 
of  the  supremacy  of  Spirit.  What  they 


got  from  it  chiefly  was  the  certainty  of 
the  continuance  of  his  personal  power. 
It  was  the  green  bough  preserved  to  them 
among  the  desolating  blasts  of  human 
experience.  "For,  lo,  I  am  with  you 
always,"  he  said,  "even  to  the  end  of  the 
world." 

That  they  did  not  treasure  more  these 
last  words,  preserve  them  with  that  metic 
ulous  accuracy  for  which  that  body  of 
religionists,  from  whom  they  were  shorn 
by  the  sword  of  Christ's  teaching,  were 
notable,  was  due  in  part  to  their  having 
no  apparent  belief  in  this  being  the  last. 
They  had  seen  him  in  the  flesh,  they 
expected  to  see  him  in  the  flesh  again. 
Nothing  else  could  account  for  the  bold 
ness  with  which  these  timid  and  easily 


shaken  peasant  souls  faced  so  soon  again 
the  possibility  of  persecution  and  death 
in  that  Jerusalem  whither  he  had  told 
them  to  await  the  confirming  visitation 
of  the  Spirit.  They  faced  it.  They  went, 
while  the  city  still  rang  with  the  story 
of  his  defeat,  to  confirm  his  triumph;  they 
preached  what  they  had  known  and  seen. 

It  seems  likely,  then,  that  on  that  last 
occasion  when  he  went  with  them  a  little 
way  on  the  road  toward  Jerusalem,  they 
had  no  notion  that  it  was  the  last  they 
should  see  of  him  in  the  body.  They 
said  unto  him,  "Lord,  dost  thou  at  this 
time  restore  the  Kingdom  to  Israel?" 

"It  is  not  for  you,"  said  he,  "to  know 
times  and  seasons."  In  his  own  time 
he  should  come  again  and  in  no  other 


guise  than  Counsellor  and  Friend.  When 
he  had  blessed  them  they  saw  him  pass 
up  the  hill  trail  toward  his  chosen  place 
and  the  mountain  mists  receive  him. 

Afterward  in  the  long  time  when  they 
expected  him  in  vain,  they  said,  in  the 
manner  of  speaking  of  that  country,  that 
he  had  ascended  to  Heaven,  so  that  long 
afterward  it  came  to  be  reported  that 
they  had  seen  him  ascending  there  in  the 
company  of  clouds  of  angels.  But  so 
long  as  they  lived  who  had  seen  him, 
they  looked  out  for  him  every  day  .  .  . 
any  knock  at  the  door  .  .  .  any 
solitary  figure  on  the  hill  paths  about 
Bethany.  .  .  .  For  they  had  laid 
him  in  the  tomb,  and  he  had  come  to 
them  in  the  very  flesh. 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 
University  of  California  Library 
or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 
2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 

(510)642-6753 
1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books 

to  NRLF 
Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days 

prior  to  due  date 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


DEC  6   1993 


APR  14 1995 


346423 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


